The Weaver
In an enchanted gloom
Behind the shadowy curtains of the Past,
He sits and weaves, with shuttle flying fast,—
Strange colors of the sun, and threads our sires have spun,—
The figures of our joy and of our doom,
While creeps the web from the low-murmuring loom.
Behind the shadowy curtains of the Past,
He sits and weaves, with shuttle flying fast,—
Strange colors of the sun, and threads our sires have spun,—
The figures of our joy and of our doom,
While creeps the web from the low-murmuring loom.
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